


Phaethon Behind the Wheel

by donutsweeper



Category: The Usual Suspects (1995)
Genre: Con Artists, First Meetings, Gen, Intimidation, Lies, Pre-Canon, Rumors, Unreliable Narrator
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-12-18
Updated: 2018-12-18
Packaged: 2019-09-22 08:00:12
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,333
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17055938
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/donutsweeper/pseuds/donutsweeper
Summary: A rumor's not a rumor that doesn't die but rumors are just rumors and while some are based in fact, some are not.





	Phaethon Behind the Wheel

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lannamichaels](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lannamichaels/gifts).



Some criminals will tell you that they weren't afraid of anything.

If asked, they'd say there wasn't a single person out there that they wouldn't stand up to; that there wasn't any possible situation that'd get them to back down; that nothing scared them. Nothing.

They'd be lying, but they'd say it.

Because every criminal had something that'd spook them. They wouldn't admit to it, but it was there. Every single one of them.

And if you could find it? 

You had them.

Cops, meanwhile?

Cops were dumb. They saw what they wanted to see and arrested who they wanted to arrest. It didn't matter if that poor schlub was the guy who did whatever the hell they were grabbing him for or not, given half a chance they'd pin it on him anyway and make it stick.

But they were easily distracted by bigger fish. The better collar. The brighter commendation. 

And if you could provide that?

You had them.

* * *

The thing was, no one really knew if Keyser Söze was real or not. No one ever claimed to have actually seen him or said they'd ever worked directly for him. There was nothing to go on when it came to him, not even second, third or even fourth hand accounts of who the guy was or what he looked like. Everyone knew someone who knew someone who had heard something about the guy, but no one really knew anything themselves; it was all hearsay. The guy was a myth. And, if you thought about it, the thing about myths were they had no basis in fact. That was the fucking definition of the term. Myths were just folk tales. Stories people told each other to encourage or explain away certain behaviors. Complete and utter bullshit.

Well, bullshit, yeah, but that brand of bullshit that you might scoff at or vehemently and loudly denounce whenever and wherever you could, but you still crossed yourself or spat twice or flicked some salt over your shoulder after you did so. Just in case. Because it _was_ bullshit. Definitely, one hundred percent, 180 proof bullshit. But... superstitions were superstitions and better safe than sorry and whatnot, right? 

So, the guy might be as fake as a three dollar bill, but it wasn't like anyone was going to admit it. Not outright. And if a rumor started about Söze poking around someplace or protecting a certain someone then anyone with an ounce of sense would stay far, far away. You play with fire and you could get burned. But if even a tenth, a hundredth, of the rumors about Söze were true? Playing with someone like that?

Beyond fire.

Ashes would be all that was left of you and everything you ever held dear. 

And that was only if you were lucky.

* * *

Dean Keaton never saw himself as a dirty cop. He was a man willing to take the risks that needed to be taken in order to get a job done. He wasn't a _criminal._ He didn't rape or murder indiscriminately. (He killed in self defense, sure, and sometimes took people out when it was necessary, but that was a different story.) He didn't haul in innocent people. If he brought someone in, they got brought in because they'd done something and the street would be a safer place without them on it. 

Period. 

End of story.

He did what he did to keep the peace, to keep the average everyday Tom, Dick, and Harry safe, even if they'd never know what he did for them. It was his job. Sure, maybe he enjoyed it a bit more than necessary, but someone had to take care of the scum that'd do anything they wanted to line their own pockets or get their rocks off or whatever. It was all for the greater good and he'd always believed that in the end that was all what mattered. And it was.

Until it wasn't.

* * *

A good confidence man's skills allowed him to go by many names, each one as true and natural as the other, and he could switch from name to name, from personality to personality, as the situation called for it. If the mark was the talkative, braggy type all they needed was a bit of shiny adoration and they would spill everything they knew. If he was a gruff, know-it-all? A shiny, newbie looking for a mentor was what would get them gabbing. A greedy loser looking for a quick score? If you convinced them there was a job waiting for them that needed their specific skill set then they'd be there, ready and willing, eager to please.

Observe. Read the mark. Gather the data about them. Analyze it. Decide what you want with them. From them. Respond to them appropriately. 

And voilà.

You had them.

* * *

"Who do you think you are, asking me to rat out my contacts?" the two-bit loser yelled, spittle spraying everywhere. "You think you're Keyser Söze or something?" 

"Yes. Yes, I do." It was an opportunity and Keaton took it; he didn't even think twice about it, just grabbed on to that rope and tugged for all its worth.

"You're Keyser Söze?" It was said with that tone of voice that had that derisive layer of 'I don't believe you' mixed with that hedgingness of 'but I'm not going to outright accuse you of lying because I don't want you to kill me if I'm wrong.' 

"That's me." It was a risk, sure, but a calculated one. Keyser Söze was a spook story; there was no way any kind of arch-criminal like that actually existed, logistically it just didn't make sense. Besides, on the off chance there really was some minor kingpin or drug tzar with that name somewhere out there in the world, what was the likelihood that Keaton using his name was even going to get back to him? Nil to not a chance in hell. And even if it did, it wasn't as if the guy was going to be able to do anything about it. No one had that kind of reach.

" _The_ Keyser Söze?"

Keaton let his accent go hard as he glared at the thug he was figuratively and physically leaning on. "Are you questioning me? I don't like it when people question me. And those people tend not to like what happens when they question me." Then he looked away, nonchalant, like he had nothing better in the world to do with his time than to kill someone for doubting him and that he'd happily make the task take as long, and be as painful, as possible. 

"No! No, sir, of course not."

Oh, he was a sir now. Nice.

"Now that we've settled that, why don't you fill me in on everything I need to know about this job of yours that you just finished." He phrased it as a statement, not a question. But it didn't matter, the guy was going to spill everything he knew, Keaton was sure of that.

* * *

Waking up strapped to a hospital bed was far from an ideal situation, especially when he wasn't hurting anywhere and didn't appear to be injured so there was no reason for him to be in a hospital and had no memory of how he got there in the first place or why he'd be in restraints. A quick look around didn't help at all. He was still in his street clothes, minus his shoes, and didn't have any bandages on him anywhere. He could see a bag of saline hanging from the pole to his right, but the tubing just dangled down to the ground, it didn't lead to his arm or chest so he didn't have anything dripping into him from it as far as he could tell. The monitor by the side of the bed was beeping what seemed to be a regular heartbeat but, again, no leads attached to him. What the _hell_ was going on?

"Dean Keaton." The voice came from the corner of the room, a spot half hidden by shadows. When the guy stepped into the light, Keaton was unimpressed by what he saw. He didn't know who the hell this guy was but he instinctively knew he wasn't a doctor or a nurse, not with that kind of menace about him, but he wasn't a cop either, he was dressed too well for that.

"Who are you?" It wasn't easy to glare when you were flat on your back, but Keaton gave it his best shot. "What do you want with me?"

"I think the better question is what can I do for you?" The man didn't look like much. White. 5'10" maybe 5'11" with no build to speak of and short dark hair that was barely peeking out from under a hat. Annoyingly, between the hat and the lighting the man's face was still in shadows, all Keaton could make out was a bit of the jawline and it wasn't memorable in anyway that gave him a clue who the man was.

"You could untie me."

"I could." The accent wasn't anything to go by either. Not with the little amount the man had said so far. American most likely, although definitely not Southern with maybe a little east coastness to it, the New York City area if Keaton had to guess.

"And will you?"

"I might. Or I might call that nice customs agent that's been sniffing after you, or that FBI agent who has that vendetta against you, or that cartel, the one with the—"

"Why don't you just tell me why you're here. Why I'm here."

"Have you ever heard the name Keyser Söze?"

Söze. Shit. He'd only used the name a few times, leaned on a few petty criminals, and none of whom would have been stupid enough to tell anyone they'd squealed since they wouldn't want to be killed for being a rat. How the hell had word gotten out about that? "It rings a bell."

"I bet it does." The man pulled out a pack of cigarettes. Keaton was too far away to make out the brand and he couldn't place the logo either, so there was no clue there to who the guy was. 

"This is a hospital," he felt he had to point out, "You can't smoke in here."

Undeterred, the man ignored him and as soon as the pack was back in his coat (dark, long, and looked expensive but wasn't a manufacturer Keaton recognized), he lit it with a gold lighter he produced from a different pocket. "Do you really consider yourself in a position where you can to tell me what to do?" 

Giving in, Keaton tested the waters a little. "Probably not. But setting off a smoke detector doesn't seem like something you'd want to do either."

"I know what I want, Keaton." The guy paused to take a long drag, probably expecting it to seem menacing or something. Keaton took the time to reassess his idea that the accent was American. It definitely _sounded_ American to his ears, but there was a deliberateness to the way he spoke that made Keaton think that each word's pronunciation was carefully crafted and it was being made to come across that way. 

"So why don't you tell me what that is."

"Not yet." Removing the cigarette from his mouth, the guy looked down at it as he rolled it between his thumb and fingers before snapping it in half and dropping the pieces on the floor where he slowly ground it out. "When the time comes though, you'll know it. For now, keep doing what you're doing." 

"That's it?" he shouted, pulling uselessly against the restraints as the guy headed for the door. "Who the fuck do you think you are, you fucking—"

Spinning around the guy spat out, almost like a parting shot, "And stop using my name," before turning off the lights and leaving him alone in the dark.

What. The. Fuck. Was that really…..

It couldn't be, could it?

His thoughts continued to swirl unabated until a confused maintenance worker stumbled on him a few hours later and released him. Apparently the entire wing was closed for retrofitting and all the rooms were supposed to be empty. Keaton refused to let them file a report about his 'accidental, informal hold' since the less on record about this whole little rendezvous with Söze, or whoever it was, the better.

* * *

A while back, Dean Keaton met Verbal Kint in County while Kint was doing time for fraud. Or so the story went.

The NYPD put together a lineup after a truck filled with stripped gun parts was hijacked while in Queens. The five men brought together for it were Hockney, McManus, Fenster, Keaton, and Kint. Six weeks later all but Kint were dead. Or so the story went.

Kint and a Hungarian mobster were the only survivors from a massive shootout and fire at the San Pedro pier that killed at least twenty seven others. Or so the story went.

When asked, both Kint and the mobster admitted to being terrified of a man called Keyser Söze. The agents questioning them, Baer from the F.B.I. and Kujan from Customs, were very interested in what they had to say about that man. Söze had been well known in law enforcement circles for years and while he might be more myth than anything else, if there was a witness, an honest to god witness, as to who he was and what he looked like it was well worth an agent's time to find out all he could.

* * *

Every criminal had something, someone, that scared them.

Every cop had a case they'd do anything to solve, a crook they'd do anything to collar.

If you could find it, provide it, and sell it just right, you had them.

You had them.

And then you were free to do whatever you wanted.


End file.
